Tangled (31 page)

Authors: Erica O'Rourke

BOOK: Tangled

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Read on for a sneak peek at
Bound,
the conclusion of Erica O’Rourke’s
darkly magical Torn series,
coming in July.

T
he problem with terrible ideas is that the people who have them don’t recognize how truly awful they are until it’s too late. After all, nobody deliberately chooses the worst possible course of action. They have great plans and good intentions. They’re caught up in the thrill of the moment, seeing the world as they wish it to be, blind to any hint of trouble. You can warn someone that they’re running headlong into disaster, beg them to stop, plant yourself in their path. But in the end, people have to make their own choice.

Even if it’s a terrible one.

My father’s coming home party was a perfect example of good intentions gone awry.

“This is ridiculous,” I said to Colin. “Who throws a huge party for someone fresh out of prison?”

My mom, that’s who. I’d tried to talk her out of it completely—I felt less than celebratory at the prospect of my dad’s return—but she’d insisted. Then I’d argued that a small family gathering at the house might be more appropriate. But for once, my mother wasn’t concerned with propriety.

So I was stuck at my uncle’s bar with everyone we’d ever known, waiting for my dad to walk in the door for the first time in twelve years.

Around me, the crowd was growing impatient, their small talk taking on an irritable note. I should have been setting out bowls of peanuts and pretzels, but instead I slumped against the back wall and watched a game of darts. “You know she’s hoping for one of those big reunion scenes. Like we’re all going to hug and cry and be a happy family again.”

Colin’s hand found mine and squeezed, but his eyes swept across the sea of people, searching even in the dim light of the bar. “Just hang in there a little bit longer.”

“I don’t know why I even agreed to come,” I said.

“Because it’s important to your mother,” my uncle said, appearing beside us. Irritation flickered across his face at the sight of my fingers linked with Colin’s. “Be grateful I told her you had to work, or you’d have been off to Indiana along with her. They’ll be arriving any moment, so start practicing your smile.”

I bared my teeth. “How’s this?”

“I’ll not have you spoil her day, Mo. She’s waited a long time for this.”

“Longer than she needed to, right?”

Billy’s eyes narrowed, and beside me, Colin made a low noise of warning.
Don’t bait the bear,
he was telling me, and any other day I would have listened. But tonight, my nerves were stretched to breaking.

Ignoring the ripple of tension along Colin’s arm, I lifted my chin and stared at my uncle. A moment passed, and finally Billy made a show of looking around the room. “Make sure everyone has something to toast with, and then you’re free for the night. I’ll need you Monday, though.”

With that, he was off to mingle. I leaned my head against Colin’s shoulder and he murmured, “The sooner we get The Slice up and running, the better. I don’t like you working for Billy.”

I wasn’t a fan of the arrangement, either, but I had no choice. Or rather, I’d had a choice—my freedom or Colin’s life—and I’d taken the latter. As long as I worked for my uncle, Colin was safe. He didn’t know about the deal we’d struck, and he definitely wasn’t aware my job was more than wiping down tables and carting empties to the recycling bins out back. He assumed, like almost everyone else in my life, that I was working at the bar until my mom’s restaurant was rebuilt, at which point life would go back to normal.

I had learned the hard way that normal was not an option anymore.

I went up on tiptoe, brushed a kiss over his cheek. His hand tightened on my waist for an instant before he edged away.

“What? Everyone knows we’re together.” I sank back down, trying not to feel hurt.

“I’m not crazy about having an audience.”

I glanced around. There were a few people eyeing us—not many, but enough to make Colin uncomfortable. “Fine. But we’re not staying here all night.”

He grinned and ducked his head, his breath warm against my ear. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

I made the rounds of the bar, my back aching from carrying a full tray back and forth. The whole time I could feel Colin watching me, an anchor in a stormy sea, and I clung to the sensation. But gradually I became aware of another one, a prickling awareness that made me rub my arms to ward off a chill, despite the overheated room.

“They’re coming,” someone said.

Around me, voices dropped to a hush, somehow as noisy as the earlier chatter. I spun, looking for Colin, but the crowd was surging toward the front, hiding him from view. Within me, the magic stirred—anticipation and stress and dread serving to wake up the force inside me. Something was happening.

Cheerful hands urged me forward, but the magic tugged at me, worried, and I stopped short, trying to hold fast against the tide of people.

Luc? He had a knack for showing up at the worst possible moment, and I couldn’t imagine a worse one than tonight. The connection between us had lain dormant for nearly three months, a welcome break while I acclimated to my new life. I’d known he would come back eventually. I’d hoped to have things under control before he turned everything inside out again.

My hands clutched the empty tray to my chest like a shield. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling along the lines for the vibrating tension that would indicate an Arc was here. But the lines were quiet, their power held in abeyance. There was no sign of Luc or anyone else in the room working a spell—even a concealment. I opened my eyes and searched for a familiar green gaze and sharp cheekbones, but they weren’t there. It was better that way.

People stood three deep in front of the oak counter running along the side of the room. Behind them, I could see the hunched backs of the regulars and Charlie, my favorite bartender. He was pulling beers and gauging who’d hit their limit, working his way down the line in a steady rhythm. He seemed to pop in and out of view as the people milled around him.

It was a familiar sight, but something seemed just slightly off-kilter, out of place. I tried to imagine Morgan’s like a puzzle in a kid’s magazine, where you compared two pictures of the same scene and circled the differences. What was the difference? The bar. Charlie. The customers. The party. What was out of place?

A gap opened in the crowd, giving me a clear view of the bar for only an instant. But it was enough.

The regulars all faced Charlie or the front door. From my spot at the rear of the bar, only the backs of their heads were visible. Except for one guy, facing the opposite direction.

Facing me.

For a split second, I could see him as clearly as if I’d taken his picture—eyebrows raised mockingly, mouth twisted in a caustic smile—and then the shutter closed as the crowd filled the gap again.

Not Luc.

Suddenly, I wished it were.

Anton Renard. Leader of the Seraphim. A renegade Arc who had every reason to want me dead.

The feeling was mutual.

I forced myself to walk toward him, but when I reached the bar stool, he was gone, and the lines were silent.

“Problem?” Colin asked from behind me. He rested his hands on my shoulders, the weight reassuring.

I drew in a shaky breath, turning to him. “I thought I saw Anton. Here.”

His expression hardened. “You’re sure?”

“No.” If it was Anton, I would have felt the spell he’d used to hide himself as it resonated along the lines. Either I was mistaken, or he’d managed to blend convincingly into a Flat bar on the South Side of Chicago. But the Anton I knew was too arrogant for blending.

Something had triggered the magic’s fretfulness, but maybe it was my own unhappiness. Over the past few months the connection had strengthened. I’d noticed how it responded to my moods—a pleasant hum beneath my skin when I was content, a tremor every time I crossed the threshold of Morgan’s—and assumed it was further proof the magic was alive and intelligent. Proof I wasn’t ready to share with anyone.

From the front of Morgan’s, someone called, “They’re here! Where’s Mo?”

Colin took my hand, tugging me toward the narrow front doors as they opened. The crowd drew a collective breath as my mom stepped inside, cheeks flushed with excitement and cold. And I forgot all about half-seen faces, because immediately behind her, blinking at the noise of the crowd’s shouts of “surprise” and “welcome home,” was my father.

I hadn’t seen him in five years.

From behind a wall of people, I studied him carefully. He was still my dad, sharp greenish-brown eyes framed with heavy black glasses. His dark red hair needed a trim, curling at the collar, and his narrow face transformed quickly from shock to pleasure. But there were lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and his hair was streaked with gray. His posture was a little more stooped, like he was trying to withdraw into himself. He looped one arm around my mother, drawing her close as people lined up to pump his hand and welcome him home.

Billy spotted me on the outskirts, trying to fade into the crowd, and grasped my elbow. “Don’t you dare ruin this,” he muttered, and towed me into the middle of the circle surrounding my parents. His voice suddenly brimmed with warmth and good cheer. “Jack! Welcome home! Look what I’ve brought you—a sight for sore eyes, don’t you think?”

He stepped back, releasing me. I could feel the crowd watching us, waiting for the tearful reunion.

After a moment, my father let go of my mom and took a tentative step toward me, spreading his arms wide. “There’s my girl,” he said, his voice cracking in the suddenly quiet room. “There’s my Mo.”

I wanted to turn away, punish him for all the pain he’d caused us. I wasn’t going to let him back in, and there was no reason to pretend otherwise.

Until I saw my mom blinking back tears, a wobbly smile on her lips. All her hopes for our family were crystallized in a single moment, and my reaction would either let them grow, or shatter them on the worn oak floorboards. I licked my lips and swallowed the dust clogging my throat.

“Hi, Dad.” I stuffed my hands in my apron pockets, dug my nails into my palms. “It’s ... good to have you home.”

He was across the room in three strides, wrapping me in the same bear hug he used to give me when I was a little kid, and for a moment I let myself believe my mom was right. Tonight could be a fresh start, a chance for us to be a family again. His return might not be such a terrible thing after all.

And then, still squeezing me tightly, my father whispered one word to me: “Liar.”

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